


Landon's Freedom

by Zendelai



Series: Landon Shepard [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Earthborn origin, Origin Story, Pre-Mass Effect, Tenth Street Reds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zendelai/pseuds/Zendelai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The decision to leave the Tenth Street Reds and join the Alliance wasn't an easy one for Shepard.</p>
<p>This is the origin story for Landon Shepard, from my story Controlling Fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Landon's Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a prompt on tumblr by cfs. I wrote this before Controlling Fate was fully formed in my head, but since one of the characters in this made an appearance in last week's chapter I figured this would be a suitable time to post the story of Landon joining the Alliance.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Name?"

 

"Landon D. Shepard." As he recited his name, he rested one arm on her desk and flashed a cocky smile. Her bored expression remained firmly planted on her face as she continued her questioning.

 

"Date of birth?"

 

"April 11th, 2154."

 

"Location of birth?"

 

"New York City." The city of street hot dogs that were filled with God-knows-what but were more delicious than anything he could have obtained in a restaurant; the city of the unbearably rich, sitting in traffic in their McLaren P1s or Ferrari LaFerraris (so pretentious that the car is named "The Ferrari" in _French_ ), blabbing on their cell phones to their unbearably rich business associates; the city of the overjoyed tourist, brand new cameras slung over their necks as they gasped at the sheer imposing size of the buildings or the 'beautiful sights' of Central Park (which included: pigeons, grass, hills, and a genuine pond); the city of the famous, who you heard lived there but you never truly saw them because they're so unattainable that they either sneak out in the dead of night or wear masks to travel anywhere.

 

That was not how Landon saw his city. He saw past the facade of glamour and riches. When you transport yourself away from the smug and the ignorant, he knew of the crime, the filth, the entire underground full of gangs that _truly_ ran the city. He knew that if you went out at night, dressed up to see the opera or the theatre (or whatever your pretentious ass wanted to pretend you were interested in) and you decided to take a stroll through Central Park to see the sights on your way home, you would get robbed (and only robbed, if you were lucky). He knew that if you spotted that poor homeless guy wrapped in blankets but still shivering because it's mid-January and you offered him a fiver, he would grab your arm and take you down into the underground with him. He knew that if a woman walked alone in the bad part of the city, regardless of the time, she would be walking bow-legged into the emergency room three hours later.

 

"You with me, recruit? I asked who your next-of-kin is."

 

"Don't have any."

 

"None? No parents? No siblings? No cousins, aunts, uncles?"

 

She could have been a little fucking nicer about asking the damn question. Yes, his parents were fucking dead; they have been since he was six. No, he has no siblings, he was amazed that his drug-riddled mother managed to spit him out healthy. He may have other distant relatives, but they clearly didn't care enough to look for him after his parents had died, so he frankly couldn't give a shit about them.

 

His cocky demeanor wavering, he snapped, "Nothing."

 

The recruiter had seen his type a dozen times before. They stroll in, thinking that they're the hot shot that will be commanding a ship just because they can fight hand-to-hand or because their parents had once let them hold a pistol. They think the Alliance will mean no work, just relaxing on a ship all day waiting for your next drop. But when reality hits them, when they realize that it's nothing but hard work and heartbreak, they drop faster than flies.

 

With a short sigh, she passed him a yellow slip. "Give that to the guy at the desk to my left, he'll give you your lodging assignment. You'll leave for the base tomorrow. Good luck, recruit." He didn't miss her bitter tone on the last sentence, and in response he shot her an overemphatic salute.

 

* * *

 

 

_(A little batarian girl.)_

 

_(All he dreamed of every single night for the past month had been a little batarian girl, tears pooling in her four eyes before spilling down the miniscule hairs on her face in torrents.)_

 

_(A beautiful, sad little batarian girl.)_

 

"Lan, wake the fuck up you lazy ass."

 

He rolled onto his side and swatted away the ghost that dared interrupt his slumber. His hand quickly recoiled in surprise when he realized that the ghost was solid, and when his gummy eyelids awoke with the rest of his body he was inches away from an irate, familiar face.

 

"Sarah?" he grumbled, sitting up slowly. A headache had begun in his right temple; he had been far from his 4,000 calorie requirement today and the effects of the deficit were starting to hit him.

 

She alternated battering his cheeks to wake him swiftly, her eyes darting around the room to make sure none of his fellow recruits had woken.

 

"What are you doing here, Sarah?"

 

"Taking you home, idiot."

 

With narrowed eyes, he grabbed her hands to stop the tiny slaps. "You and I both know that Frankie doesn't want me home."

 

"He changed his mind. My bike's outside. Let's get you out of here."

 

Without a second thought, he grabbed a t-shirt riddled with holes out of his unpacked bag, threw it on, slung the bag over his shoulder, and followed her out of the bunks.

 

The night air held a deep chill that rattled Landon to his bones as he followed her across the open field, the frozen grass crunching under his boots. In the distance he heard an owl hoot, but all other creatures were smart enough to either hibernate or head down south to avoid the horror that was winter in a Northern state.

 

He finally broke the silence to ask her, "Mind telling me what changed Frankie's mind?"

 

"Do I look like a mind reader to you?" she snapped.

 

He could see the air escape his lips when he sighed. He loved Sarah. Not the type of love that you feel when you want to dedicate the rest of your life to a person, when you want to marry them and have children and grow old so that you can sit side-by-side on the swing chair on the porch drinking homemade lemonade; no, it was a briefer and more passionate type of love, where he hungered for her wit and her body but grew extremely sick of her after a few hours. The sex was so mind-blowing, though, that it helped him forget her endless flaws and the way that she could so easily get under his skin.

 

"I guess the Reds were in a forgiving mood," she finally said, reading the dissatisfaction in his expression. "But I'd try not to piss him off again or you'll end up dead instead of just homeless."

 

As if he didn't know that already. He had been an active member of the Reds for twelve years already, so he knew the rule: piss off Frankie once, get your sorry ass kicked out. Piss off Frankie twice, get a bullet in that sorry ass. It went without saying that you'd get a bullet in your head, too.

 

Sure, the Reds were a bunch of gangsters and thugs. But they had provided shelter for his drug-addled mother when his father had decided to say "fuck my wife and kid" and swallowed a big old bottle of vodka with a side of sleeping pills. When his mother had overdosed and kicked the bucket, they had given Landon a lumpy bed to sleep on and canned food to eat in exchange for his services to the gang. When he was young that mostly meant passing messages along between bases and hiding in sewers to eavesdrop, but when he grew large enough to wield a gun they taught him to hone his biotics and turned him into a killing machine.

 

_(A little batarian girl.)_

 

They were nearing the brick walls that bordered the barracks. With her finger against her lips to indicate her need for silence, Sarah grabbed his wrist and shoved him flush against the wall while a patrol passed only feet away from them. When he had passed the spot where they waited, breathless, Sarah scanned the area with her omni-tool before declaring it clear. He gave her a boost up the wall and she easily pulled him up.

 

"Hurry up," she hissed, jogging towards a nearby oak tree with Landon in her wake. As they neared it, he could see that her classic Harley was chained to the tree, gleaming in the moonlight.

 

"I can't believe you brought the Harley."

 

She unchained it and gazed at it reverently. "What, you thought we were going to walk?"

 

With a practiced precision, she threw her leg effortlessly over the seat, turned the key, and started it with a kick. She never wore a helmet -- "helmets are for pussies" she would always say -- so to avoid her jibes, he went without one as well, swinging his leg over the seat and gripping her waist. He could feel her muscles ripple beneath his hands as they took off, the strong wind blowing his shaggy black hair out of his face. She took a right turn onto a quiet country road and hit the throttle, propelling them to well over 100MPH. The Alliance base slowly faded, as did his desire to join.

 

This moment -- the bike rumbling between his legs, his arms wrapped around a beautiful woman, the air blowing against his face with such strength that it hurt -- it was freedom. He questioned to himself why he wanted to join the Alliance in the first place, why

 

_(A little batarian girl)_

 

he would want to leave the life he had developed among the Tenth Street Reds. He had easy access to money, food, a warm bed, an even warmer woman. Sure, being in a gang meant making unsavoury decisions at times

 

_(A little batarian girl, her eyes closing and her mouth opening as she began to wail)_

 

but being in the Alliance was going to mean making unsavoury decisions at times, too. He would have still had to hurt, and to kill, but it would have been for honour instead of money. Was it really that different?

 

He thought that joining the Alliance would mean a chance to provide freedom for others, even if it meant sacrificing it for himself. But in the end, what could he -- one lone man -- do for humanity? He had been born underground and there he would die. He simply wasn't the type of man to become a hero, to become a symbol of hope, because it would mean sacrificing his freedom and that wasn't something he was ready for.

 

This moment, this was what he wanted. The road was lined with pine trees, oblivious to the winter, and their smell lingered with the faint odour of gear oil in spite of their current speed. He closed his eyes and inhaled, filling his lungs with country air, more refreshing and clean than the shit in the city. He released his hands from Sarah's waist and leaned back, raising his arms out to the side. His body felt like a kite and the wind attempted to throw him backwards but he gripped his legs tighter; for a moment that stretched to eternity he believed that he would be able to take flight, away from the Alliance, away from New York, away from Sarah, away from Frankie, away from the Reds, away from

 

_(A little batarian girl, her eyes closing and her mouth opening as she began to wail, "Daddy! No, Daddy!")_

 

everything that had tied him down for every day of his existence. He wanted nothing more than to leave everything behind and start a new life, a more promising life, a life away from

 

_(A little batarian girl)_

 

the horrors he had experienced through his years.

 

_(A little batarian girl, her eyes closing and her mouth opening as she began to wail, "Daddy! No, Daddy!". Blood began to roll down her cheek, parallel to the tears in one long streak.)_

 

The horrors he had seen, that gripped him in his every moment, both waking and sleeping.

 

* * *

 

 

"Daddy!" the little batarian girl cried out, leaning forward in her chair. Frankie roughly pushed her back into place and wrapped duct tape around her chest and the back of the chair.

 

"There, you little shit, now stay still or I'll put this over your mouth."

 

Her lip trembled but she kept her mouth firmly shut, both tears and blood streaking down her face.

 

His eyes glinting with the sort of malice reserved for an absolute madman, Frankie turned toward the other batarian hostage. "So, Ambassador, would you like to reconsider my offer?"

 

"The hegemony has posted me on Earth, I have no choice, I cannot leave!" His eyes shook as they began to fill with tears.

 

"You don't need to go back to them. You can go to the Citadel, Omega, Illium, anywhere. You just need to get the fuck away from Earth. Earth is for humans, and humans only."

 

"Can't you see reason?"

 

Frankie's shotgun was swiftly pulled from its holster and the barrel rested on the batarian man's forehead. An acrid smell filled the tiny basement as the Ambassador's bladder released.

 

"Please don't do this," he whispered. "I am only doing my job, surely you must see that. My daughter, she is innocent, you must leave her, she--"

 

"Shut up," Frankie growled, digging the barrel farther into his forehead. "Promise me that you'll leave tonight and I'll let you both go. If you don't, I'll kill you first, just so she has to watch."

 

"Please... not my Namia... please..."

 

"ARE YOU FUCKING LEAVING EARTH TONIGHT, YOU BATARIAN SCUM?"

 

"Anything you need, anything, just not my Namia!"

 

Frankie's hand trembled, and for a moment Landon thought that he was still going to shoot the batarian before he lowered his weapon. Frankie turned slowly, his shotgun bouncing against his hip as he approached the little girl. Wordlessly he began to circle her chair, eyeing her like a piece of meat.

 

"If batarians weren't such scum I'd want to get a little piece of her." He errantly ran his finger across her cheek, feeling her body tremble. "I'm afraid I'd catch something if I did, though. Ah well, there are other ways to make her suffer. Landon?"

 

Landon's eyes, which had been glued to the face of the little girl, jerked up to meet the eyes of his boss. "Yes, Frankie?"

 

"Kill her. Slowly. Then kill him."

 

Landon was rooted into place in disbelief. "He agreed to leave."

 

Frankie shrugged indifferently. "I decided that I still want them dead."

 

Landon's mind began to reel. He couldn't kill an innocent pair in cold blood, regardless of if they were scumbag batarians. They had agreed to surrender, it would be genuine murder if he killed them now. Not to mention the fact that Frankie had instructed that he killed the innocent little girl slowly. But if he didn't follow Frankie's orders, he'd be out of the Reds, and then where would he go? He had no family, no friends outside of the Reds, nothing.

 

What was he to Frankie, though? He was his attack dog, and his only job was to kill those that Frankie didn't want to. Frankie had chosen him for the position for several reasons: one was because Landon was a biotic and his abilities provided amusement for Frankie, and the second was that Landon never asked questions as long as he got paid. But what gave Frankie the right to call the shots when it came to people's lives? What did he do to deserve such power, other than kill those who got in his way? Why did Landon have to be his trigger man? He could go to the Alliance if he wanted to be a trigger man, and he wouldn't feel so fucking guilty if he did.

 

It all became clear to him in that defining moment: even if he did hate batarians -- all aliens for that matter -- he couldn't kill those two. They were people too, and they deserved a chance to survive.

 

"I'm not doing it, Frankie."

 

"Do it," Frankie growled, "Or get the fuck out of my sight."

 

In one smooth movement, he removed his pistol from its holster and pulled up a biotic barrier. "Go fuck yourself, Frankie." He turned around and exited the basement without sparing his fellow Reds a second glance.

 

As he left, he heard two shotgun blasts behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

"Stop the bike."  His voice could barely be heard over the rushing wind in Sarah's ears.

 

"What? Who's Mike?"

 

Over the wind he roared, "I said stop the bike!"

 

"Are you fucking insane?"

 

"Sarah, stop the goddamn bike."

 

Her lip curled ferociously she screeched to a halt, the bike swerving from side to side as the tires locked up. "You better have a fucking good explanation," she growled.

 

"Take me back."

 

"I'm taking you back to the Reds right now, idiot."

 

"I mean to the Alliance."

 

"Why would I do that?"

 

"I can't go back to the Reds. I can't go back to Frankie. I'm sorry."

 

Her dark hair shifted over her shoulder when she spun to face him, her brown eyes blazing. "So I rode all the way here to pick you up and save your ass and you're telling me you want to go back? You do realize that Frankie is going to find you and kill you, right?"

 

"I'll be off-planet before he can think about it."

 

"Fine." She revved the engine and planted her leg, swinging the bike around. "Fine." Without another word they took off back towards the base.

 

Although Landon would be forgoing his freedom to take up the life of a soldier, he would be gaining so much more.

 

In what felt like the blink of an eye they were back at the base, and Sarah was turning off the Harley. He swung his leg over the side of the bike, and as he turned to leave he felt a gentle tug at his sleeve.

 

"I'll miss you, you stubborn son of a bitch. I hope you get what you want out of this."

 

He kissed her forehead before pulling out of her grasp. "Me too, Sarah. Me too."

 

As he made his way back into the base, saluting a thoroughly confused guard on the way in, a feeling enveloped both his mind and body, a feeling which was entirely foreign to him: hope.


End file.
